••! 


19173 


SAN  QUENTIN  PRISON 


^il^'N\^w^^w-^NV// "'^v"-/^^///!^       ^^^^  \JM 

Drbps^Dlood 


Prison  Verse 


by 

Royall  Douglass 

No.  "19173" 
San   Quentin 


Altruria  Press 
Palo  Alto,  California 


Copyright  1911  applied  for  by 
The  Altruria  Press,  Palo  Alto,  Cal. 


Foreword 

/I  STRAIN  of  music,  the  scent  of  a  flower, 
^*1  the  ripple  of  running  water — how  often  they 
sweep  a  chord,  mute  but  yet  attuned,  awakening 
the  pent  floods  of  memory.  It  is  thus  -with  this 
little  book  of  verse,  wrung  from  the  silent  gloom 
of  unending  prison  nights — nights  -we  spent  to 
gether  in  the  semi-darkness  of  a  forgotten  world. 

Behind  the  graven  figures,  "19173,"  I  see  you 
tonight  as  I  saw  you  then,  seated  at  the  tin\  deal 
table  m  our  little  eight  by  four  cell,  the  dim  light 
from  the  smoky  oil  lamp  falling  fitfully  upon  your 
face  as  you  wrote  in  silence,  line  after  line,  page 
after  page— and  I,  lying  on  the  narrow  bunk 
against  the  wall,  wondering  what  you  were  wrest 
ing  from  the  Universal  Source  and  setting  into 
words  amid  such  sombre  surroundings. 

To  all  the  art  of  ''''setting  words  prettily  to 
gether,  ' '  as  Ruskin  puts  it,  you  have  added  that 
color  which  can  be  drawn  only  from  the  fountain 
of  hard  experience.  May  the  message  you  are 
sending  out  find  its  way  to  the  heart  of  the  world 
and  there  plant  the  seed  of  a  deeper,  larger  and 
kindlier  understanding. 

In  those  years  of  the  past  we  studied  the  theme 
of  Life  together.  Today  we  labor  apart,  and  yet 
together  as  before — you  in  your  way  and  I  in 
mine — to  turn  the  thoughts  of  men  and  women  to 
ward  the  needs  and  the  possibilities  that  exist  in 
the  4  'proscribed, ' '  seeking  to  redeem  ourselves,  and 
in  so  doing,  to  encourage  others. 

DONALD  LOWRIE. 

San  Francisco,  California, 
December  3, 


941249 


Contents 


Stained  6 

Release  7 

The  Open  Road  8 

A  Christmas  Sonnet  9 

At  a  Numbered  Grave  10 

Sonnets  of  the  Hours  1  I 

The  Garden  of  Death  1  6 

A  Nocturne  18 

Love's  Warder  19 

The  Death  Watch  20 

A  Roman  Holiday  22 

Shadows  25 

Sunset  26 

Absence  27 

Rose  of  Seville  28 

The  Land  O'  Dreams  29 

The  Call  ...  30 

Blind  Eros  31 

Sepulture  32 


"Here  strides  a  chap  ill  luck  unlimbered  knows, 

A  singing  as  he  goes! 
Think  you  the  Future  has  no  gifts  to  bring 

To  one  who  still  can  sing — 
Who  dreams  in  lock-step,  and — when  chance  obtains — 

Makes  music  with  his  chains?" 

F.  M.  B. 


Stained 


HOULD  you  in  youth  have  stood  at  bay 
When  error  in  your  conscience  lay, 
And  seen  fair  Promise  turn  away 

When  you  had  all  but  won  her, 
Do  you  believe  you  could  retrieve, 
Or  that  the  world  would  e'er  believe 

In  what  it  terms  your  honor? 
Do  you  imagine  you  could  climb 
Parnassus,  and  by  deeds  sublime 

Outlive  the  stain  of  slander? 
Would  that  one  blot  upon  the  page 
Obscure  your  dearest  heritage 

When  scandal  came  to  pander? 

Your  prayer  might  fathom  every  creed — 
But  would  your  brother  hear,  or  heed? 


O  mankind  under  mortal  ban, 
O  gentle  woman,  manly  man, 
O  brother  since  the  world  began, 

And  theosophic  swain — 
O,  brutes,  that  revel  in  your  pen 
And  masquerade  in  garbs  of  men! 

What  profit  may  one  gain? 
Had  you  concealed  that  fault  of  youth, 
And  tuned  the  fatal  notes  of  Truth 

To  Falsehood's  subtle  strain, 
And  fed  the  brutes  their  husks  divine, 
And  plied  them  with  Circean  wine 

In  tolerant  disdain — 


•n  every  breath — 


You  were  a  prince! — on  every  breath — 

How  grand  your  life!  (How  damned  your  death.) 


Release 

E  has  not  kith  nor  kin  whom  he  may  claim — 
The  place  once  home  to  him  is  but  a  name; 

And  though  the  world  be  wide,  and  highways  free, 
But  one  gate  stands  ajar  for  such  as  he. 

He  warms  his  chilling  limbs  at  stranger  fires — 
A  stranger  bed  by  night  a  pittance  hires ; 

And  where  the  city's  lights  are  brightest,  there 
He  finds  a  deadly  surcease  from  despair. 

He  has  but  memories  to  dwell  with  him — 
The  memories  of  all  that  might  have  been ; 

And  now  that  men  have  pardoned — made  him  free- 
How  will  they  balance  law  with  memory? 

A  hundred  churches  beckon  him— to  pray ; 
Sweet  charity  would  welcome  him — away; 

For  by  the  very  act  that  made  him  free 
He  wears  the  crimson  badge  of  infamy. 

Whose  hand  will  grasp  his  hand — when  all  is  said? 
The  world  still  sees  his  stripes  and  shaven  head. 

How  would  we  meet  this  crisis,  thus  alone, 
With  neither  love,  nor  friend,  nor  hope  nor  home? 


The  Open  Road 

HERE  wends  the  road  beyond  these  walls? 

I  do  not  know — I  may  not  see; 
But  every  hour  its  freedom  calls 

And  leads  me,  spirit  free. 

So  swift  it  sweeps  in  curving  gleams, 
So  clear  beneath  the  sun  and  moon, 

It  calls  me  from  my  work  and  dreams, 
At  midnight  and  at  noon. 

A  clanging  bell!     The  bolts  fly  back 
As  each  day  brings  its  task  anew; 

A  purr  of  wheels — the  looms'  "click-clack"— 
I  see — the  road,  and  you. 

To  know  this  helpless,  hopeless  throng — 
This  bar-bound  death  in  life — the  prayer — 

The  muttered  curse  of  nameless  wrong — 
The  silence  of  despair! 

And  yet — a  garden  blossoms  there 

That  breathes  of  Omar's  rose-blown  bower; 
And  love's  blood-rose  set  in  your  hair 

Perfumes  my  every  hour! 

Where  wends  the  road  beyond  these  walls? 

I  know  not  whither  it  doth  wend; 
But  this  I  know:     whate'er  befalls, 

You're  waiting  at  its  end. 


A  Christmas  Sonnet 


HROUGHOUT  our  land,  from  end  to  end, 
1  he  Christmas  spirit  reigns  today. 
Again  is  sung  the  sacred  lay. 
And  festal  chimes  their  music  lend, 
While  cheer  flows  free  from  friend  to  friend- 
Save  in  these  walls  of  sombre  gray 
Where  sullen,  silent  bondmen  stay. 
The  fettered  years  of  life  to  spend. 

No  gladness  here — no  carols  sung, 
No  cherished  gift  to  send  or  prize; 
No  wreaths  of  holly  here  are  hung 
To  laud  the  Shepherd  of  the  skies. 
Despised — with  murmurs  on  each  tongue — 
The  bondmen,  in  their  turn,  despise. 


At  a  Numbered  Grave 


OT  his  the  song  that  came  or  closed 

As  each  changed  mood  its  impulse  lent; 
That  soaring  high  anon  reposed, 

With  lower  utterance  blurred  and  blent. 

Not  his  the  wing  that  sprang  aloft 
To  settle  soon  in  wearied  rest, 

Familiar  with  the  skies,  but  oft 
Returning  to  an  earthly  nest. 

His  song  poured  ceaseless  and  serene, 
Unvexed  by  dull  and  dissonant  chords, 

And  all  its  artless  art  was  seen 

In  noble  acts  and  thoughts  and  words. 


Sonnets  of  the  Hours 

Scene  —  A  Prison 


IS  nine — by  clock  and  bell  and  gong; 
The  long  night  waits,  and  desolate. 
Full  wearily  the  wards  of  State — 
Whose  shadows  pace  dim  walls  along 
Whence  whispers  steal,  and  murmurs  throng — 
Score  grimly  from  the  page  of  Fate 
The  mocking  finger  of  a  date. 
One  symbol  of  an  endless  wrong. 

Sleep — dreams!  what  dreams  may  come  to  me 

Who  live  each  hour  in  vivid  dreams? 

Methinks  that  immortality 

Is  but  the  cobweb  of  such  themes. 

And  yet,  here  on  the  nether  brink, 

How  bitter  are  the  dregs  we  drink! 


They  call  again — the  hour  is  ten. 

Within  the  vaulted  corridor 

The  nightwatch  steal  along  the  floor 

With  cat-like  tread,  from  pen  to  pen 

Where  captive  lie  their  fellowmen. 

A  lantern  flashes  by  the  door 

On  sleeping  bondmen — score  on  score — 

Who  dream  of  that  fair  morning  when 

The  law  has  had  its  utmost  due. 
And  they  again  breathe,  full  and  free. 
The  pure,  sweet  air  of  heaven's  blue 
In  one  deep  draught  of  liberty. 
With  each  lone  hour  I  vigil  keep — 
And  wonder  how  the  world  can  sleep! 


"ELEVEN"— is  the  Warder's  cry. 
Long  years  ago  I  was  a  child, 
All  innocent  and  undefiled. 
With  listening  ear  and  anxious  eye, 
A  mother  sensed  each  troubled  sigh, 
And  every  childish  fear  beguiled — 
While  father  stood  beside  and  smiled 
To  see  the  man  of  by-and-by. 

Along  the  corridor  a  pace 
I  hear  a  murmured  prayer — and  then, 
Above  that  plea  for  heaven's  grace, 
A  voice  is  cursing  God  and  men! 
And  these  were  each  a  mother's  child- 
A  father's  pride,  and  undefiled. 


TWELVE  strikes — the  Watch  is  changing  now. 
Dame  Pleasure  throngs  the  midnight  street 
With  countless,  hurrying,  eager  feet. 
Sleepless,  I  toss  with  fevered  brow 
While  vivid  fancy  pictures  how 
Two  seek  a  restaurant's  retreat, 
And  make  pretense  to  drink  and  eat 
While  Eros  bends  an  arrowed  bow. 

They  whisper  of  the  tragic  mime — 
I  hear  the  diva's  voice  sublime, 
And,  after  but  a  moment's  pause, 
The  rippling  ring  of  wild  applause. 
But,  listen  to  reality — 
A  little  cricket  sings  to  me! 


"ONE— ALL  IS  WELL."     A  new-born  day 

Is  ushered  in  the  fold  of    I  ime; 

In  its  pulses  vice  and  crime, 

Truth  and  honor,  grief  grown  gray, 

All  the  elements  that  sway, 

Low  or  noble — base,  sublime, 

Purest  pearls,  and  vilest  slime, 

Yours  to  choose,  or  cast  away — 

While  the  ghosts  that  haunt  this  place 
Steal  into  each  secret  space, 
Feed  upon  the  heart's  own  core, 
Consume  it,  o'er  and  o'er  and  o'er. 
Is  there  any  recompense 
When  a  soul  shall  hurry  hence) 


"ONE — TWO" — Another  lagging  hour 
Has  fled  into  the  vanished  past. 
O,  Christ!     how  long  will  this  night  last? 
And  why  should  I  to  conscience  cower 
Though  mocking  phantoms  frown  and  glower? 
No!    All  reliance  I  will  cast 
Upon  the  future's  promise,  vast — 
And  trust  the  One  Eternal  Power. 

Somewhere  in  poet  lore  'tis  said 

That  all  the  world  will  laugh  with  you. 

But  leave  you  lonely  with  your  dead. 

I  wonder  if  the  poet  knew. 

If  truth  alone  be  written  there, 

How  futile  then  is  trust  and  prayer? 


'TIS  THREE— and  by  the  wicket's  light 

I  roll  another  cigarette, 

Inhaling  deeply,  to  forget 

Each  pictured  moment's  laggard  flight — 

To  banish  visions  from  my  sight; 

For  while  the  Spirit  I  may  let 

To  roam  the  deep,  star-dusted  night, 

This  shell  of  clay  enfolds  me  yet. 

"THREE— All  is  well."  The  world  is  still 
And  velvet-black  the  bar-bound  night; 
No  sound,  save  echoes  in  their  flight 
That  haunt  me  still,  so  hollow,  chill. 
God!    "All  is  well!"    Such  mockery 
As  Lucifer  alone  may  glee. 


AGAIN  they  call — the  hour  is  four. 

Without  the  walls  a  robin's  song 

Swells  joyously  and  brave  and  strong, 

To  greet  the  welcome  light  once  more; 

So  jubilant  the  flood  doth  pour 

I  think  the  bird  can  know  no  wrong, 

Or,  knowing,  to  it  must  belong 

A  knowledge  deeper  than  man's  lore — 

Else  never  such  a  roundelay 
To  speed  the  dawn  upon  its  way. 
Nay— it  would  be  a  sadder  lay; 
For  what  does  daylight  bring  to  me? 
Long  hours  of  silent  slavery — 
With  this  one  note  of  melody. 


AT  LAST! — the  strident  rising  bell, 
And  loud  and  shrill  the  whistle  blows; 
A  minute,  full,  to  waken  those 
Whom  sleep  still  holds  in  death-like  spell. 
Now  they  will  open  every  cell, 
Almost  before  I  don  these  clothes 
In  which  each  listless  bondman  goes 
To  round  his  task,  and  round  it  well. 

In  striped  file  down  dining  hall 

The  lock-step  drags  its  sullen  pace — 

They  eat  in  silence,  face  to  face — 

A  turnkey  lets  a  mallet  fall — 

And  then  to  quarry,  shop  and  loom. 

Where  JUSTICE  turns  the  wheels  of  doom. 


The  Garden  of  Death 


AFE  bound  by  locking  waters 

Within  the  Golden  Gate, 
A  Fortress  stands,  remote  and  gray, 

A  prison  of  the  State. 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep 

A  massive  portal  scars, 
Where  warders,  grim,  their  vigils  keep 

With  locks  and  bolts  and  bars — 

And  flaunting  o'er  the  battlements 

Floats  "Freedom's"  stripes  and  stars! 


In  old  San  Quentin's  garden 

The  morn  is  sweet  with  blooms; 
A  little  square  in  God's  pure  air 

Amid  a  thousand  tombs; 
And  in  a  fountain's  mirrored  depths, 

As  you  are  passing  by, 
Bare,  mocking  walls  on  either  hand 

Seem  reaching  to  the  sky — 

And  through  that  glimpse  of  paradise 
A  youth  was  led — to  die. 


Above  San  Quentin's  garden 

The  loop-hole  grates  look  down, 
Beyond  the  wall  and  castled  keep 

Where  shotted  cannon  frown ; 
And  just  within  a  little  gate 

Along  a  steel-bound  tier, 
In  cells  of  death,  men  hold  their  breath 

When  unseen  steps  draw  near — 

For  death  is  in  the  air  they  breathe, 
And  in  each  sound  they  hear! 


Through  old  San  Quentin's  garden 

They  led  him,  to  his  doom. 
While  rose  and  lily  sighed  for  him 

An  exquisite  perfume; 
And,  in  the  prison-yard  beyond. 

Men  spoke,  with  bated  breath, 
Of  laws  that  mock  the  law  of  God, 

And  strangle  men  to  death — 

Of  men  who  send  God-given  life 
To  godless,  brutal  death! 


O'er  old  San  Quentin's  garden 

A  stately  pine-tree  sighs, 
A  lonely  captive  from  the  wild 

Where  Tamalpais  lies; 
And  seated  by  its  rugged  trunk 

A  convict,  old  and  wan, 
Was  reading  from  a  little  book 

He  held  in  palsied  hand; — 

And  on  the  title  page  I  read: 
"The  Brotherhood  of  Man. 


A  Nocturne 

(To  Poe) 

HEN  the  hush  of  evening  lingers 

And  the  day  dims  away, 
From  the  touch  of  Memory's  fingers 

Steals  a  lay — olden  lay; 
While  from  rose  and  lilac  blooming 
In  some  garden  in  the  glooming 
Comes  the  soft  night  wind,  perfuming 

Every  breath  along  the  way. 

And  the  vespers  from  the  village 
Ringing  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Tempt  my  soul  thy  store  to  pillage 
Ere  I  go,  and  bestow 

One  more  flower  with  the  dower 

That  you  gave  in  love  and  power 

To  the  spell  of  twilight  hour 
Treasured,  vanished — long  ago. 

L'envoi. 

Poet, — thy  genius  hath  not  stayed  me- 
'Twas  the  soul  Lenore  waylaid  me, 
And  I  would  thine  own  to  aid  me 
From  its  chambered  wealth  of  woe! 


Love's  Warder 


AST  night  in  dreams,  long  after  I  had  died, 
My  spirit  sought  the  portals  of  Her  heart; 
There  a  sweet  silence  reigned  in  every  part — 
No  sign  of  wreck  nor  ruin  I  descried; 
And  I,  who  once  had  dwelt  there,  stood  and  sighed, 
Thinking,  "Since  I  have  slept  in  the  cold  clay 
Betimes  all  stains  of  grief  are  washed  away 
That  some  new  tenant  soon  may  here  abide." 

As  thus  I  mused  One  entered  quietly, 
And  in  his  hand  the  key  to  every  door. 
Sadly  I  turned:  "Thy  pardon.  Sir,"  said  I, 
"But  once  I  dwelt  here,  who  dwell  here  no  more." 
Humbly  he  bowed:     "Thy  servitor  am  I; 
The  keys  are  thine.     My  name  is  Memory." 


The  Death  Watch 

(Evening) 

BEAM  of  sunlight  falls  athwart  the  floor; 

In  checkered  squares  the  bars  that  cross  my  door 

And  seal  this  narrow  cell,  lie  shadowed  there ; 
The  mote-shot  arrow  quivers  in  the  air, 

A  shaft  of  living  light  that  stabs  the  gloom, 
Revealing  each  dim  recess  of  this  tomb. 

Can  it  be  that  this  same  sun  shone  today 
On  the  old  home  so  near — so  far — away? 


Home!     wonderword.     What  reveries  you  bring — 
What  memories  of  love  around  you  cling! 

A  barefoot  boy — the  little  country  school, 
The  dusty  roads  and  hidden  swimming  pool — 

The  orchards  and  the  meadows  where  long  hours 
He  dreamed  among  the  bees  and  birds  and  flowers — 

The  low- banked  river  winding  slowly  by 
Whose  bosom  mirrored  all  the  azure  sky — 

The  home  of  love,  and  love's  maternal  hand, 
Her  fairy-tales  and  songs  of  slumberland. 


The  day  is  done.     The  bright  sunbeam  has  fled; 
'Twas  but  the  herald  of  a  glory  dead. 

To  all  the  care-free  world  one  day  has  passed — 
Man  has  decreed  that  it  shall  be  my  last. 

(Midnight) 

Just  now  I  heard  the  tolling  of  a  bell — 

And  then  the  answer:     "Twelve — and  all  is  well." 

The  silent  watch,  with  stolid,  mask-like  face 

Pads  round  and  round  this  dim,  death-haunted  place; 

And  yet  I  know  before  the  day  is  done 
My  earthly  place  shall  be  a  darker  one. 

The  watcher  bids  me  rest — but  sleep  has  fled ; 
Does  not  one  sleep  forever  with  the  dead? 


Last  night  in  dreams  I  saw  a  vision  there, 

The  gleaming  eyes,  the  wondrous  wind-btewn  hair 

Shone  through  the  gloom,  a  lambent  aureole 
To  light  the  darkness  of  a  tortured  soul. 

The  pure,  sweet  lips  my  fevered  forehead  pressed, 
A  truant  tress  my  burning  cheek  caressed. 

I  strove  to  move — to  speak,  but  iron  bands 
Seemed  rivited  on  lips  and  eyes  and  hands. 

With  mighty  strength  the  bonds  of  sleep  I  broke! 
With  eager  hands  I  reached — and  then  awoke. 

More  than  the  world  she  suffers  for  my  crimes; 
I  die  but  once — she  dies  a  thousand  times! 

(Morning) 

The  pallid  dawn  steals  softly  o'er  the  land; 
Strange,  ghostly  shapes  take  form  on  every  hand. 

Hark!     Someone  comes.     The  bars  swing  slowly  back 
And  on  my  cot  is  laid  a  garb  of  black. 

The  warders  from  the  door  grim  tidings  give — 
One  turns  to  me:    "You  have  an  hour  to  live." 


An  hour — one  hour — how  strange  it  seems  to  be! 
Another  hour  and  time  shall  cease  for  me. 

An  hour  to  write,  to  speak,  to  think,  to  pray — 
And  I  shall  be  a  clod  of  lifeless  clay. 

An  hour!     'Tis  scarcely  that  since  life  began. 
So  infinitesimal  this  human  span. 

What  recks  it  how  we  live  or  when  we  die 
In  this  brief  hour  of  All-Eternity? 

How  vain  each  act  of  good  or  ill  we  do, 
Since  that  hour  your  Brother  judges  you. 

Though  all  your  life  be  wrong  from  breath  to  breath, 
Is  his  the  hand  to  seal  another's  death? 

His  stamp  of  justice  brands  each  warrant  red. 
When  he  must  meet  the  legion  of  the  dead 

And  read  the  one  mute  question  in  those  eyes — 
How  futile  then  all  pleas  man  may  devise. 


A  Roman  Holiday 

WAS  a  morn  in  June — and  a  fair  spring  day 
For  the  eager  crowds  and  the  Roman  play. 

Over  the  bay  from  Frisco  town — 
Over  the  country  highways,  brown — 

Hundreds  of  men,  good  men  and  true, 
Speeding  to  witness  the  law's  last  due. 

I  stood  by  the  prison  gate  that  day, 

As  the  throng  surged  in  for  the  Roman  play; 

One  by  one,  through  the  bar-bound  door, 

Where  the  man  they  sought  would  go  out — no  more; 

In  single  file,  through  the  narrow  way 

Where  thousands  of  men  pass  through,  for  aye. 

Where  once  a  woman,  with  bated  breath, 
Had  plucked  a  rose  in  the  Garden  of  Death, 

And  breathed  in  its  heart  her  voiceless  grief — 
Her  deathless  love  for  a  common  thief — 

They  passed — and  tainted  the  prison  air, 
And  spat  on  the  flowers  blooming  there; 

They  e'en  made  jest  of  the  death  cells  near, 
To  smile  when  a  curse  fell  on  the  ear; 

For  THEY  heard,  too,  those  men  with  one  hope — 
Just  to  escape  the  hangman's  rope! 

I  saw,  and  followed  with  helpless  eyes, 

As  they  crossed  on  the  fragile  "Bridge  of  Sighs;" 


While  down  in  the  mill  men  held  their  breath! 
Waiting  to  hear  the  "thud"  of  death. 

I  watched  them  mount,  from  floor  to  floor, 
Step  by  step,  to  the  gallows  door, 

And  looking  up  to  the  vault  of  blue, 
I  wondered  if  He  were  watching,  too. 


So  still  is  the  room  you  can  hear  each  breath ! 
For  this  is  the  charnel-house  of  death. 

The  place  is  crowded  from  wall  to  wall — 
All  hope  is  past  of  a  life's  recall. 

Rigid  and  gaunt  the  gallows  stands, 
The  pitiless  work  of  human  hands. 

Over  the  trap-door,  gaping  loose 
Dangles  the  strangling,  hempen  noose — 

Coarse  and  callous,  the  Hangman  grim 
Steps  to  the  task  you  bring  to  him; 

Hidden  and  shamed,  the  three  Guards  wait 
Each  with  a  knife  on  a  strand  of  Fate 

That  none  may  know  who  the  murderer  be— 
One  strand  is  Death,  and  the  strands  are  three. 

Mutely  restless,  the  throng  stands  by 
Waiting  to  see  a  brother  die. 

Down  in  the  silent,  idle  mill 

A  thousand  men  are  breathless  and  still! 

A  thousand  others,  in  cell  and  hall 
Wait! — it  is  time  for  the  trap  to  fall. 


They  led  him  out  as  the  clock  struck  ten, 
Into  the  roped-off  gallows  pen, 

Parting  a  path  that  opened  wide — 

His  arms  strapped  fast,  and  a  priest  beside; 

The  mask  of  death  on  his  graven  face 

As  he  mounts  the  stair  with  unhalting  pace. 

A  nameless  murmur  jars  on  the  air — ? 
The  broken  words  of  a  man's  last  prayer. 

The  black  cap  fell  at  the  signal  hand, 

And  "JUSTICE"  is  done — at  your  demand. 


They  hung  him  high  on  a  Friday  morn; 
He  fell  six  feet,  and  his  head  was  shorn, 

The  trunk  lay  here,  and  a  Thing  lay  there — 
Clotted  with  red  the  graying  hair; 

And  the  pulsing  gush  of  the  crimson  flood 
Sprinkled  the  priest's  white  robe  with  blood! 

That  grim,  gray  room  was  a  ghastly  sight, 
As  the  throng  surged  out  to  the  air  and  light, 

Sickened  and  spent,  on  that  fair  June  day — 
All  for  the  sake  of  a  Roman  play. 

And  looking  back  on  the  buried  years, 
On  the  lives  that  a  prison  scars  and  sears, 

How  it  leaves  the  soul,  man-handled  each  day 
In  the  grip  of  its  senseless,  brutal  sway — 

I  stood  there  wishing,  within  the  gate, 
That  I  had  suffered  the  dead  man's  fate! 


Shadows 


C 


ARDER,  rover,  spinner  and  loom. 
Bondmen  weaving  the  threads  of  doom! 
Hour  by  hour — at  Fate's  decree — 
Weaving  the  web  of  Destiny. 


A  man  stands  ready  beside  his  task, 

A  man!     Of  the  Master- Workman's  mask; 

He  threads  the  shuttle  and  starts  the  loom, 

Weaving  the  fabric  of  his  doom. 

Fold  by  fold,  in  calm  and  strife, 
The  web  is  wound  from  the  warp  of  life; 
While  the  weaver  dreams  of  the  Fates  that  be- 
And  of  Faith  and  Hope,  and  sweet  Charity. 

Hour  by  hour  the  shuttle's  song — 
Month  by  month — and  the  years  are  long! 
For  the  inner  life  is  a  barren  womb 
Where  hope  is  dead,  and  the  soul  a  tomb. 

Whose  the  fault  when  the  shuttle  flashed. 
Leaving  the  fragile  fabric  slashed? 

Fair  was  the  task,  as  task  may  be — 

Strange  are  the  ways  of  Destiny! 

A  man  steps  down  from  beside  life's  task, 

A  man  in  dishonor's  fatal  mask; 
While  a  novice  stands  by  the  waiting  loom, 
Ready  to  start  the  wheels  of  doom. 


Carder,  rover,  spinner  and  loom. 
Bondmen  weaving  the  threads  of  doom ! 
Hour  by  hour — at  Fate's  decree- 
Weaving  the  web  of  Destiny. 


Sunset 


SAW  the  royal  robes  of  twilight's  train 
Sweep  through  the  crimson  portals  of  the  West: 
And  in  the  gleaming  wake  I  glimpsed  again 
The  ship  of  Asteroth,  in  splendor  drest, 
Drift  up  the  deeps  of  evening,  calm,  unriven, 
As  't  bore  the  radiant  soul  of  Him  to  heaven. 

Perchance  the  Potter  of  the  twirling  sky, 
The  Moulder  of  the  molten,  lava  seas, 
The  Builder  of  the  argosies  on  high, 
The  Painter  of  the  flowers  and  the  trees 
Took  cloud  and  fire,  pearl  and  purple  gem, 
And  in  your  heart,  beloved,  blended  them. 


Absence 


OW  you  are  gone — 

How  changed  and  strange  all  seems  to  look  upon1 
The  deep,  cool  shadows  of  the  redwood  grove. 
Dim,  haunted  aisles,  blue  canopied  above. 

The  path  that  leads  to  one  wild,  hidden  shrine 

O'ergrown  with  grasses,  flowers  and  columbine. 
The  rippling  shallows  of  the  mountain  stream, 
The  quiet  pools,  where  mirrored  fancies  dream 

No  tribute  pay  to  Pan's  enchanting  song — 
Now  you  are  gone. 

Now  you  are  gone — 

How  keen  the  measure  of  that  word — alone; 
For  while  your  presence  lingers  everywhere 
One  may  not  touch  your  hand  or  smooth  your  hair. 

About  a  vase  of  roses  in  the  room 

Still  clings  a  haunting,  exquisite  perfume ; 
And  when  I  brush  them,  with  a  soft  caress, 
Each  crimson  petal  breathes  a  tenderness 

That  leads  me,  as  the  sun-led  mists  are  drawn, 
Where  you  are  gone. 

Where  you  are  gone — 

Tell  me  the  beauties  of  the  morning  dawn ! 
Are  they  as  bright  in  yon  far  alien  skies 
As  those  that  lit  love's  wondrous  paradise? 

Do  summer  moons  gleam  golden  through  the  trees 

That  sigh  with  every  fragrant,  vagrant  breeze? 
Within  the  borders  of  your  new  domain 
Do  knights  of  courtly  valor  press  your  train? 

Ah,  tell  me!    is  your  heart  still  mine  alone 
Where  you  are  gone? 


Rose  of  Seville 


DREAMED  last  night  of  Spain,  love, 

Where  storied  castles  are; 
A  troubadour  again,  love, 

I  touched  a  light  guitar. 
Within  the  walls  of  old  Seville 
Beneath  thy  moonlit  lattice  grille, 
I  sang  to  thee,  when  all  was  still, 

A  lay  of  love  and  war. 

You  lingered  by  the  grille,  dear, 

A  picture  in  the  bars — 
The  rose  of  old  Seville,  dear, 

I  vowed  by  all  the  stars — 
And  when  a  gage  I  asked  of  you 
To  me  a  dainty  glove  you  threw, 
And  bade  me  up  to  dare  and  do 

With  lance  and  shield  of  Mars! 

You  danced  with  me  tonight,  love, 

A  stately  old  quadrille; 
Your  eyes  were  softly  bright,  love, 

My  sweet  rose  of  Seville! 
Two  dainty  hands  you  held  to  me, 
The  one  was  masked,  the  other  free — 
The  truant  glove  I  had  from  thee 

Last  night  in  old  Seville! 

You  glanced  at  me  askance,  dear — 

The  music  wove  a  spell — 
And  thus  in  Cupid's  trance,  dear, 

A  prophecy  befell: 

Last  night  you  said,  in  dream's  domain 
A  Cavalier  of  olden  Spain 
Beneath  your  lattice  sang  a  strain — 

And  won  a  heart  as  well. 


The  Land  o'  Dreams 

ONIGHT,    to  see  a    summer  moon     hung  low    adown  the 

west. 

And  watch  the  goblin  starlight  gleam  along  the  river's  breast ; 
To  scent    the  twilight    fragrance    of  that    Garden    of  my 

Youth, 

To  feel  once     more  the     heart  of  things,     their  simpleness 
and  truth! 

In  dreams  there  is  a  rustic  seat,  a  swing  beneath  the  trees — 
The  lowing  cattle  by  the  bars,  and  cow-bells  on  the  breeze — 
O,  many  exiles  wander  in  far  lands  across  the  seas! 


The  mystic  wonders  of  the  East,  its  jewels  and  delights. 
The  crimson  dawns  of  tropic  bloom,  the  poppy-laden  nights 
I'd  give, — to  scent  the  heliotrope  in  mists  of  sunlit  rain. 
To  linger  with  the  violets,  and  you,  adown  th;-  lane. 

In  waking  hours,  and  restlessly,  in  every  haunt  of  man's 
I  seek  that    fabled  land   o'  dreams  that    I  may    clasp  your 

hands. 
O,  many  are  the  wanderers  in  nearby  distant  lands! 


a:: 


r .::;;; 


Sepulture 

N  the  gloom  of  a  cell  corner  hidden. 

Where  shadows  grow  dim  on  the  wall, 

Where  no  sound  save  of  echoes  unbidden 
Comes  ever,  the  world  to  recall, 
Where  no  light  from  the  grating  can  fall, 

Not  even  the  gleam  of  a  star, 
Alone,  and  unheeded  by  all, 

Is  a  shadow  of  what  we  all  are. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  day  that  is  dying, 
When  memories  come  at  our  call, 

And  the  crickets,  their  challenges  crying, 
Chant  softly  from  crevices  small, 
While  the  dim  wraiths  of  spirits  in  thrall 

Come  thronging,  nor  heed  wall  or  bar, 
There,  dying  in  twilight's  dim  pall, 

Is  the  shadow  of  what  we  all  are. 

Where  now  are  the  ones  who  are  sighing — 

Who  waited  through  all  the  long  years 
For  the  lad  who  would  brook  no  denying 

While  laughing  away  all  their  fears? 

His  last  letter? — here, — and  it  sears! 
How  futile  this  vain  mortal  span 

Since  all  that  is  left  us  are  tears — 
And  the  shell  of  a  thing  once  a  man. 


941249 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D 


DEC  1 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 


LD  21-100m-6,'56 


General  Library 
University  of  Califort 
Berkeley 


